Calculated Rotation

Holding one of the four-pointed alloy shurikens between the armored plates of my fingertips, I weighed its center against the noon thermal rise. A projectile that spins must accept rotation as destiny, not hesitation. With an unhurried, measured flick of my right gauntlet, I released the star along a flat horizontal plane. It sheared through the still air with a faint metallic thrum, striking the weathered face of a fallen architrave six paces distant. The sharpened bevels bit deeply into the porous stone seam, shivering once before locking into absolute, perpendicular stillness. True geometry enforces itself without drama.